Paper Hearts and Broken Wings
by Zaabeth
Summary: Time after time he's forgotten. Canada has had enough. It's not like they'll ever remember. So isn't it just best to end it? America doesn't think so, but then again, he's not the one they forget. Now a Three-Shot.
1. Paper Hearts

**So I've finally finished my exams, and I thought 'hey, why not post a celebratory fic?' So I did. Wrote this all in one night, which is pretty amazing for me. Anyways, have at it. It's the first of a two-shot (I already have the second part finished, but it just flows better as two separate chapters).**

**I've also never written anything of this genre, so I don't know if it's any good.**

**But yeah, enjoy, review, tell me how I did. Hope you like it.**

**Warnings: Dark Themes, Swearing, and the like.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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America blew past the greeters and receptionist, rushing to the elevator doors, and desperately pressed the 'up' button.

"Come on…" he whispered frantically after a few seconds, jamming his thumb once again on the red button. "What the fuck is taking so long…"

A mother quickly guided her child away from where America was standing, shooting the blonde a dirty look.

America didn't blame her. He knew he probably looked a mess.

He pressed the button again, losing what little patience he had left. Stepping back, he ran a trembling hand through his hair, glancing upwards at the floor display panel.

It blinked mockingly back at him.

Floor 14.

"God DAMNIT," he yelled in frustration, slamming his fist into the elevator doors. He needed to get up there _now_. He didn't have time for this.

The smooth, metal doors buckled under the force of the hit.

He could hear the hotel receptionist calling for security.

"Fuck," America gritted out between clenched teeth. He took one last glance at the elevator before dashing to the stairwell on his left, pushing past a young couple and wrenching open the heavy, white door.

He ignored the yells from the receptionist and security guards, focusing only on the steps before him. Nothing else mattered. He had to get up there.

Someone was waiting for him.

He took the steps two at a time, glancing up every now then to check what floor he was on.

3.

7.

12.

He needed to get to floor 18.

That's where _he_ was.

_America had gotten the call early this morning. He had still been sleeping, and the ringing of his cell phone had woken him up. _

_Half asleep, he had answered the call with a groggy "Hello?"._

_The voice on the other end had been quiet and controlled, replying with a simple "Hi Al, it's me."_

He should have immediately recognized who it was.

He should have instantly heard the pain and hurt in the voice.

He should have answered with anything but "And who are you?"

_He had realized his mistake when the voice on the other end let out a broken, desperate laugh, a hint of hysteria seeping through. "I-It's Canada, Al." There was a shallow, dejected breath. "I'm sorry, I s-should have known you wouldn't have me under c-caller ID."_

_America had wanted to reply that he actually did have the northern nation's number programmed into his phone – he had just forgotten to check the display – but the other had continued before he could talk._

"_L-Look, I'm sorry," Canada had said, chocking on the words, "I know you probably don't c-care, but I needed to talk to someone before I… before I…"_

America stumbled on his way up the steps, catching himself on the rail. He only paused for a moment – the memory of the phone call replaying in his mind – before continuing upwards.

_He remembered with agonizing clarity how he had frozen at the Canadian's words. The pain and desperation in the northern nation's voice had been excruciatingly clear. America had waited, barely breathing, for the nation to continue, but all he had heard was a muffled gasp. He had clenched the phone tight in his hand before finally speaking. _

"_Before you what, Mattie?" he had asked, not really wanting to know the answer._

_There was more broken laughter, then the sound of someone moving around. "Does it really even matter anymore?" Canada had asked, voice distant and cynical. "What's the point of even trying?"_

_Then, so silently America almost missed it, "I wonder if this is high enough?"_

America rounded the corner, checking what floor he was on as he continued up the steps.

Floor 17.

Almost there.

"_High enough for what, Mattie?" he had asked, dread seeping into his bones._

_But Canada had stopped listening, and all America could hear were loud gusts of wind._

"_Mattie?" he had called, desperation creeping into his voice. "Matt? You still there? Matthew?"_

_Then, finally, "It could all end here, couldn't it?" Canada's voice was detached, uncaring, and America had suddenly realized what was going on._

"_No. Matt," he had said, trying to sound commanding, but his voice came out as a gasp. "Matt, don't you dare. Don't do this."_

_Silence._

"_Fuck it Matthew, TALK TO ME," he had yelled into the phone, desperate for some kind of reply._

"_You don't understand, Al," Canada had finally said, "I'm ready for it to end. I can't take it anymore."_

"_Stop saying that, Matt," he had commanded, already out the door. "Just don't do anything until I get there, ok? Tell me where you are and I'll be right there."_

"_Why Al? So you can be the hero?"_

"_God damn it, Matthew," America had pleaded into the phone. "Please, just tell me where you are."_

Canada had given him a hotel, floor, and room number, and then before America could say anything else, the line was disconnected.

He ran down the hall, checking room numbers as he went.

1809… 1811… 1815…

1817.

That was it. This was the room.

This is where Canada was waiting.

Waiting only because America had asked him to. But Canada didn't want to wait.

He was ready to jump.

And America wasn't going to let that happen.

* * *

**And ta da. Part two will be up in a day or so. So tell me if you like it, I'd love to know.**


	2. Broken Wings

**Alright, here is the second part to this two-shot. I really hope that you guys like it. PLEASE LET ME KNOW HOW I DID.**

**And the ending... yeah... (don't kill me) *hides*.**

**Warnings: angsty Canada, sadness, suicidal thoughts and the like.**

**Disclaimer: Still own nothing.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

He didn't bother knocking. He just broke the lock and stepped into the nondescript hotel room. America quickly scanned the area, desperately trying to find the Canadian.

He wasn't in the room.

America was about to go into full panic mode when he finally realized where Canada was.

He was on the other side of the window, standing on the ledge with his back to the clear pane of glass.

America cursed under his breath, and his heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest.

He quickly crossed the room, taking note of the torn pictures that were scattered across the floor. He caught a glimpse of one: He, England, and France laughing about something or other. And Canada, standing behind them, looking like he was trying to get their attention.

America frowned. He remembered that moment, but he didn't remember Canada being there.

He reached the window.

There were two panes of glass. Canada had his back to one of them, and the other was wide open, allowing cold gusts of wind to dance into the room. America shivered, taking a deep breath before he steadied himself against the window's frame. He stepped forwards, gently placing his foot on the cement ledge and looked out past the empty space below him. Slowly, he turned to face the Canadian.

But Canada continued to stare straight ahead, not even acknowledging the American's presence on the ledge beside him.

America took a shaky breath, trying not to think of the gaping drop before him. Composing himself, he briefly closed his eyes before he spoke up, talking loudly to be heard over the wind. "What are you doing out here, Mattie?" he asked nervously, hoping to get the Canadian talking. "Thought you said you would stay put."

"I did," Canada answered stoically, "I haven't moved since I ended the call." He held out his hand, and in it rested his cell phone. "I was standing out here when I talked to you."

Then, without any warning, he tossed the phone out into the empty space. America watched with wide eyes as the tiny device tumbled through the air. He followed it as long as he could, losing sight of it before it hit the ground.

America stood frozen on the ledge, fear and hopelessness making his knees weak.

That could have been Canada – could still_ be_ Canada.

He tuned back to the northern nation, desperately struggling to find the words that would bring him back inside.

"Matthew," he said seriously, trying to catch the Canadian's gaze. "Please, don't do this. There had to be a better way. This isn't the answer."

And yet America didn't even know the question.

Canada stayed silent.

"Talk to me, Matt!" America exclaimed frantically, thinking if he could just get the other nation to talk – to explain the problem – that he could make it all better.

Canada finally turned his head to look at America, and America felt himself go numb at the look in the Canadian's eyes.

It was a look of pain, misery, and despair.

But what followed was even worse, when Canada tried to hide his brokenness and pain. America could see the mask try to form, to cover the open and pleading eyes with apathy and emptiness. Piece by piece Canada covered himself, hiding away from the world, closing himself to America.

"I have nothing to say." Canada's voice was tired and bitter. He turned away from America, looking back out into the empty space.

America tried to shake off the sense of hopelessness that had buried itself into his bones. He forced himself to move. He had to keep talking, had to keep trying. He couldn't give in yet.

"Why, Mattie?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady even as he felt himself shake. "There are people who care about–"

"No one cares, Al. No one."

"That's not true," America replied, despite the painful truth that those words contained. "I care."

At least that was the truth. He did care.

When he remembered.

Canada just laughed that desperate, broken laugh.

"Sure you care," he said, pushing his hair from his face. "Like I'd really believe _that_ after all the times you've _forgotten_ me."

America struggled for an answer, for an excuse.

But any excuse would just be a lie.

Instead he settled for the truth.

"I'm here now," he said.

Canada merely gave him a blank, apathetic look. "I didn't want you here."

"But I came anyways."

Canada turned away, leaning heavily against the window. "I've had enough, Al. I'm ready for it to be done."

"You can't seriously mean that," America asked, even though he already knew the answer. "To actually want to…" he trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence. Instead he just looked down to the empty street eighteen stories below.

"No one has ever tried this before, Al," Canada said quietly, transfixed by the emptiness before him. "I'll be the first."

Canada then glanced at America, a strange look in his eyes. "People might actually remember me."

America felt his blood run cold. To think that Canada would go _this far_, would be _this_ _desperate_ to think that killing himself would get people to remember him. How could America not have noticed this before? He was supposed to be a hero. How could he have so obviously missed Canada's distress?

America watched numbly as Canada turned away from him, leaning dangerously close to the edge. Eyes widening with panic, America tried one last, desperate effort at bringing the Canadian back inside.

"You don't even know if this will kill you," he said, each word striking at his heart. He didn't want to talk like this, but he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Canada leaned back, sighing as if he was being denied something he desperately desired. "What do you mean, Al?" he asked, voice weary.

"We're nations," America explained in a strained voice, "we don't die the same way as normal people. This fall might not kill you."

Canada tilted his head back against the glass. "I don't care anymore," he said to the sky. "It's too late to go back now."

"No, it isn't," America said, recognizing the hopeless, dejected way the Canadian was standing. "Matthew, don't. Please, it's not too late." He was getting desperate now.

Canada wasn't even looking at him. He had pushed himself away from the window and was staring at the empty space in front of the ledge, transfixed.

America started panicking. "Mattie, listen to me, this isn't the answer."

Canada just got this calm, peaceful look in his eyes.

America reached out, hoping beyond hope that he could still stop the unfolding events. "Matthew, god damnit, don't do this!"

Canada closed his eyes, smiling slightly as he took a single step forward, the darkness calling him.

"Bye Alfred."

And a single step was all it took.

America outstretched hand just barely brushed the trailing edge of Canada's coat, tears falling like rain from desperate eyes.

And Canada stepped off the ledge.

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**(I'm so sorry... *cries*)**


	3. Fallen Angel

**People just kept asking and asking for this, so here it is. Wasn't my original plan, but hey, a writer has got to cater to the audience. Hope you enjoy.**

**Warnings: Uh, sadness and stuff...**

**Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.**

* * *

America couldn't stand their fake tears and apathetic speeches. The sorrow was all forced, and the condolences were impersonal, cold, and distant. Everyone seemed indifferent. The entire ceremony was nothing more than some kind of detached, social gathering. There was nothing – apart from the flag draped over the coffin – that gave any evidence of who they were mourning. No pictures, no heartfelt messages. It was as if the person in the coffin was a mannequin – a doll that had never lived. A being that no one had ever cared about.

And America hated it.

"_L-Look, I'm sorry, I know you probably don't c-care, but I needed to talk to someone before I… before I…"_

The funeral ceremony for Canada happened on a Sunday, two weeks after the horrific incident. The bitter irony of the day made America want to laugh and cry at the same time.

It was the first day of the seventh month: July the first.

Canada's birthday.

"_Does it really even matter anymore? What's the point of even trying?"_

It was Canada's day. The day where everyone was supposed to remember him and celebrate his life and be there for him.

And Canada was dead.

And no one seemed to even_ care_.

America wanted to yell. He wanted to accuse the surrounding nations, to blame them for everything they did and everything they hadn't done. To make them _see_. To make them _understand_. To make them _care_.

"_You don't understand, Al. I'm ready for it to end. I can't take it anymore."_

But America couldn't. He couldn't blame them. He couldn't accuse them and scream at them and yell and cry and hate. Because he was just like them.

No, he was worse.

Sure, America saw _now_ what he had done. What he had driven his brother to do. What he had failed to stop from happening.

How could he even think to blame England for his forgetfulness, or France for his carelessness, or any of the others for their inability to notice Canada when he had…

"_No one cares, Al. No one."_

When he had, time after time, failed to be there for his brother. When he'd not only forgotten him, not only overlooked him, but actually _hurt_ him.

Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Hurt him enough to drive him to the edge.

"_No one has ever tried this before, Al." _

Enough to make him jump.

"_I'll be the first." _

But Canada had never blamed America. The northern nation had never given any indication that he held hard feelings towards his American brother. He had never shown the pain of being forgotten, or the loneliness of being overlooked. No, even when he was standing on the ledge, even when he was taking the final step, he never looked at America accusingly.

But America still knew. He knew it was his fault. If he hadn't been a superpower, if he hadn't kept overpowering and outshining Canada, his brother wouldn't have so desperate. He wouldn't have gone to such extents.

His brother would probably still be alive.

"_People might actually remember me."_

And as America scanned the room of nations, looking at the faces of Canada's supposed loved ones, watching as a few representatives ambled towards the red-and-white covered coffin, he realized with dread that no one here _would_ remember him.

No one would even try.

In weeks or days or maybe even in hours, the memory of that shy and gentle nation would fade from everyone's mind. It would get lost behind the memories of war and strife and love and everything else that everyone here had or would ever experience. Canada would fade from history, just as he'd faded from sight during countless meetings and conferences.

His memory, like his life, would cease to exist.

"_I don't care anymore. It's too late to go back now."_

America watched from his spot in the corner as the wake slowly began came to an end. Anyone who had wanted to say anything – who had wanted to speak in Canada's name – had finished. It hadn't lasted long, barely an hour, since there hadn't been many speakers. No one seemed to know what to say.

No one mentioned the suicide.

And America watched various nations left the hall without a second's pause. Like they had something much more important they'd rather be doing, somewhere more interesting to be, something more memorable to devote their attention to.

America averted his gaze as a group of Europeans passed him on their way out. He didn't want to see their apathetic and indifferent expressions. Their mindless and uncaring condolences. He didn't think he could handle it. But try as he might, he couldn't escape their words. Words that he heard loud and clear.

"Well this was a waste of my awesome time…"

"God, that was so fucking boring. I don't know why you dragged me to this, you damn tomato-bastard."

"Germany~, why did we come here? I don't even know a Matthew Williams, ve~..."

America could feel a sharp pain in his chest. Of course they hadn't held a funeral for _Canada_. They had held one for Matthew Williams, the name behind the country. The name of America's – no, not America, Alfred's – brother.

Matthew Williams.

"_Fuck it Matthew, TALK TO ME."_

Matthew.

"_God damn it, Matthew. Please, just tell me where you are."_

Mattie.

"_Why, Mattie? There are people who care about you…"_

Alfred had tried.

"_Matthew, don't. Please, it's not too late."_

He had tried so hard.

"_Mattie, listen to me, this isn't the answer."_

But he had tried much, much too late.

"_Matthew, god damnit, don't do this!"_

And so he had been forced to hear those final two words.

"_Bye Alfred."_

It had been horrible, and terrifying, and heartbreaking. Horrible to hear those final words, terrifying to watch him take that final step, heartbreaking to have his fingertips so close yet so, so far away.

And so Alfred had watched him fall.

Fall without a sound.

Fall until he landed.

And Alfred knew – knew from eighteen stories up – that he was dead.

He hadn't needed to see it…

But he did.

He hadn't needed to check…

But he did.

He had just felt it. Felt it the moment it happened. Felt it like a part of him had been ripped away and cast into oblivion. It had hurt. It had hurt like a physical blow to the gut. But that pain was nothing compared to the emptiness he felt now.

And he knew that he would never, ever forget. The emptiness wouldn't let him. And although Alfred wanted to let that emptiness consume him, to let it overtake him and render him nothing more than a shadow, he knew that he couldn't break. Not like that.

Not when he finally knew what he had to do.

He would make _them_ remember. He would make _them_ care. He would talk about Matthew and Canada and what he stood for and how _good_ he was. He would speak on Matthew's behalf and help out with his country and Alfred would try his best to be the brother that he never was.

He would honor one of Matthew's last wishes – _"People might actually remember me."_ – and he would do everything he could to make sure they remembered.

He wasn't going to forget.

And he wasn't going to let the others forget Matthew either.

* * *

**And here is chapter three to my originally planned two-shot. Hopefully no one feels the need for ANOTHER chapter. But hey, I would love some feedback, so please feel free to tell me how you felt about this. **

**I absolutely adore Canada, he's one of my favorite characters, but... a story is a story. And this one pretty much wrote itself. So I'm sorry about the character death. *tears***

**Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed it. Love you guys.**


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